04-30-2023, 11:09 PM
When there is relief at hearing another voice, the black mare realizes that she is beginning to understand what loneliness feels like. It is such a strange feeling, to long for the company of those she had once tried to devour. But she feels it every time she is eavesdropping on conversations, every time she witnesses pairs or groups or families communicating or simply enjoying each other’s presence.
And she feels it now, when the mud-covered mare speaks. It gives her a break from her own thoughts, from her own hauntings. She hadn’t noticed her there (a bitterness about that, from someone who had once always been able to clock where nearby warm flesh existed).
’What is it?’ The stranger asks and this mare searches her mind for an accurate description. She does not look at it, does not need to or want to. She can picture it clearly enough in her mind (except there it is not a jumbled mess of muddy sticks and leaves and bark, it has a gleaming black exoskeleton and sharp silver teeth. It has bottomless, emotionless black eyes.
It wishes her harm, because she is just prey now.)
When she stops, so does it - though tremors run through it continuously and cause all its various parts to shake.
“A ghost.” She focuses on the dark halo of this stranger, fascinated by it, and happily latching on to anything that she can use as an anchor for her attention. “It changes shape now and then but… but it is always there.”
And then, she practices her art of conversation - gesturing to the muddy leg even though her eyes remain on the halo, where it is safe. “Did you fall?”
And she feels it now, when the mud-covered mare speaks. It gives her a break from her own thoughts, from her own hauntings. She hadn’t noticed her there (a bitterness about that, from someone who had once always been able to clock where nearby warm flesh existed).
’What is it?’ The stranger asks and this mare searches her mind for an accurate description. She does not look at it, does not need to or want to. She can picture it clearly enough in her mind (except there it is not a jumbled mess of muddy sticks and leaves and bark, it has a gleaming black exoskeleton and sharp silver teeth. It has bottomless, emotionless black eyes.
It wishes her harm, because she is just prey now.)
When she stops, so does it - though tremors run through it continuously and cause all its various parts to shake.
“A ghost.” She focuses on the dark halo of this stranger, fascinated by it, and happily latching on to anything that she can use as an anchor for her attention. “It changes shape now and then but… but it is always there.”
And then, she practices her art of conversation - gesturing to the muddy leg even though her eyes remain on the halo, where it is safe. “Did you fall?”
nostromo